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| Because Baby it's COLD out there |
We
are devout believers in the old adage, “Real sailors don’t go upwind.” Our
practice is to stick our bow out into the river and ask the boat which way she
wants to go. Sometimes there are options and she lets us decide. Other times
it’s her way or back to the dock.
With
ten whole days of sail time ahead of us, we are keen for a big adventure. It’s
blowing like crazy from the west, so all indications are good for us to make
Ocracoke. We get out in the river and find it’s blowing a little too hard to
head straight out. It’s cold and the wind chill makes it even colder. We opt
for Goose Creek and the ICW, where we should be able to sail easily and enjoy
protection from some of this wind. We can’t make it to Ocracoke in one day
anyway; it’s too far.
At
the far end of the ditch, past Hobucken, the wind dies. Flocks of buffleheads
(known to hunters as “butterballs” because their diet of wild celery plant
makes them so tasty) startle at our approach and skitter off with a musical
whistling of wings. I love these birds, because the males are so handsome and
because you’ve got to love a creature who can fly not only in the air but also
underwater.
Once
we’re out of the ditch, there’s just enough wind to sail east to one of our
favorite anchorages, Rock Hole Bay. This is a tiny, shallow little bay we
stayed in two summers ago and where we have never seen another boat. Small
fishing boats could get into it, but we’ve never seen one. There are little
canals running out from it, one of which cuts all the way through into Pamlico
Sound. It’s terribly romantic and very skeetery in the summer. But there are no
skeeters now. In fact, it’s so cold we barely make it through the sunset before
diving below and cranking up our little propane heater, a brilliant innovation
of Eric’s.
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| Rock Hole Bay Sunset |
We
sip our wine (for me) and beer (for Eric) and heat up some boat stew for our
supper. We have electric lights (thanks to Eric’s careful re-wiring) but we
love the warm glow of our oil lamp. After a little while, we cuddle up under a
bunch of layers in the V-berth and sleep like the dead. At first light though,
I’m wide-awake and raring to go. The wind is still blowing from the west, and
we’re excited to see if we can make Ocracoke. From there, I’m keen to see
Portsmouth Island and even Hatteras, with stops along the way at the tiny towns
of Avon and Rodanthe, made famous by Nicholas Sparks. I am prone to wild ideas.
It’s
fantastic sailing downwind to Brant Shoal. Pamlico Sound looks like a huge open
body of water both on the maps and from the surface, but underneath it’s
riddled with shoals, at some points only six inches deep. There is also an
unfortunate bombing range, smack dab in the middle of our route to Ocracoke, so
we skirt around it, following the danger markers, toward the big high marker at
the end of Brant Shoal. As we get near it, we notice a schooner coming up
behind us under power. It’s hard for us to imagine having such a big and
beautiful boat on such a perfect sailing day without even a scrap of sail out.
Why does this person have a sailboat, if all he does is motor?
We
watch as it powers closer and closer, right on our butts, on a perfect
collision course. The schooner has an enclosed pilothouse, so we can’t see if
anyone is on watch or not. It’s entirely possible someone is watching TV below
decks and letting the autopilot take care of the driving. Any boat of
consequence would show up on the radar, but not Willadine. We make a sharp turn
to avoid collision. She misses us without altering course one iota. We’re close
enough to read the name on her stern. We wonder if she even knew we were there.
Just
about that time, the wind begins to pick up and shift to the north. Naturally,
it’s right on our nose. There is no possible way to make Ocracoke without
motoring and we’re short on fuel. We hate motoring anyway, so we alter course
to sail toward Core Banks, pulling in our headsail and reefing the main to
accommodate the wind, which is now blowing steady at twenty with gusts to
thirty.
We’ve
been in Core Sound before. Last time it was blowing thirty-five from the north
too. The thing about Core Sound is that it’s even more shallow and shoal-y than
Pamlico Sound. On the chart, the entrance is clearly marked, so we figure it
will be okay. When we find the first marker on the way into the very narrow channel,
we are relieved, as the wind has shown no sign of slacking and even seems to be
building. Our sail is reefed to a hanky and we’re screaming along downwind at
five knots.
At
marker number five, we run aground. Although this is not a terrible crisis on
Willadine, we are surprised, because we are positive we’re in the marked channel
and it can’t be less than two feet deep. But it is. We are dead abeam marker
five and running aground. We pull up the keel and the rudder and keep going
into the deeper water ahead, shaking our heads in wonder. Welcome to Core
Sound. A tiny sandbar to the west contains the ruins of a chimney, a victim of
global climate change. We might take time to stop over there and explore,
except that it’s blowing so darn hard, getting late and it’s hellishly shallow
everywhere.
On
a calm day, we could run Willadine up on that sandbar, jump off and wade
around. But the water is forty-two degrees right now and the wind is whistling
in our rigging. We’re both very relieved that we were able to make it through
the shoaling in the channel without having to jump out and push her off. Brr.
Riding
the northerly wind into Cedar Island Bay, we peer around for an anchorage. Last
fall we made it over the six-inch deep entrance to Back Bay for an anchorage,
but we both had to jump off Willadine to get her out as the tide was going out.
Neither of us is keen for that to happen now so we anchor behind a stand of
trees to try to block this crazy strong wind. There was no northerly in the
forecast, of course, but here we are.
The
anchor drags for some reason, so we pull it up and decide to anchor farther in.
Eric becomes entranced with the idea of anchoring in The Great Salt Pond at the
head of the bay, so we head for it and run aground again. No wonder we never
see another boat in here. It’s incredibly shallow. We use our motor to back off
the muddy bottom and somehow get the anchor set. It’s a pretty sunset again,
but it’s also getting colder.
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| Cedar Island Bay Sunrise |
When
we wake next morning, it’s dead calm, so I talk Eric into launching the kayaks
to explore the Salt Pond. Past the entrance, I can see a sandy beach. There is
no sign of human habitation on this side of the bay, just marsh and scrubby
bushes, water and sky, sea birds wheeling and diving. It’s wild and very
beautiful, the blue dome of sky reflecting in the glassy water.
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| Willadine looks lost in all that water |
At the head of
the salt pond, large brown ponies graze near the beach. The word idyllic comes
to mind. We beach the kayaks and walk on the narrow strip of beach toward the
Cedar Island ferry landing. I wonder if the ferry passengers have any idea what
a wild place this is.
Back
on Willadine, the wind comes up a bit and we sail over to the Quality Seafood
to see about getting some gas. We hail some fishermen in the channel and they
tell us there is no gas in there. At least, there is none for sale to us. But
there is some wind, so we sail it back to the Core Sound channel, thinking to
try to make Ocracoke again. We get all the way back to the channel entrance
when the wind just quits. Our sails hang limp. We strip off layers of clothing
and bask in the warm sun. What little wind there is hits us right on the nose.
We inch our way back and forth at the channel entrance.
To
the east, Core Banks begins calling me. I want to go over there. The beach is
over there. The pull is irresistible. I suggest to Eric we go over there and he
squints at the marshy bank and pooh-poohs the idea, in his easy gentle way. But
I persist. I suggest we anchor, since we’re not going anywhere anyway and I’ll
paddle to the banks. After much wheedling and cajoling, I win. We bump the
bottom several times on the way over and finally get too scared to continue.
Eric throws out the anchor and I launch a kayak. As soon as I get away from the
boat, I see white sticks in the water ahead. I know what these are. They mark a
navigable channel to some destination. I paddle along the sticks and judge it’s
deep enough for Willadine. It leads into an opening in the marsh, one we
couldn’t see from farther out. There is a derelict dock and a little mud beach.
I haul the kayak out and walk up a fairly well-maintained sandy road toward the
beach.
I
walk only a little way, when I reach a tidal pond and the hairs on the back of
my neck prickle. One word roars through my mind: Alligators. I stop dead,
peering at the water, looking for eyes and nostrils. I don’t see any. Eric
calls me on the handheld VHF radio. This makes me feel only slightly more
courageous, so I head back. He’s dying to come over and I want the security of
his presence and reassurance that there are no man-eating alligators out here.
I’m sure it must be pure paranoia.
It
doesn’t take more than a minute to convince Eric to try for the dock. We bump
the bottom several times, but the channel is deep enough for Willadine. I’m a
little worried we’ll never make it out of there again, but the pull of the
shore is irresistible. On the road, I tell Eric my fear about the alligators
and he says there aren’t any here. As we walk, I cling to his arm and he laughs
at me. I’m scanning the sides of the road and I see raccoon tracks, but nothing
else, until we come around a bend and see this:
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| Later we decide it was probably an opossum, but I'm it looks reptilian to me! |
I’m
sure I know what this is and it’s terrifying, more so because I sensed the
presence before I even saw the tracks. But, by now, we’ve reached the
unoccupied house and we can hear the surf beyond.
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| Core Banks Cottage |
The beach is untouched. There
is no sign of human life in either direction, as far as the eye can see.
Dolphins surface just offshore. The beach is littered with shells of all size
and description. The surf is easy and perfect. If it were warmer, I would want
to swim. We sit and watch the surf until the sun begins to set and then we walk
back to Willadine.
During
the night I awaken, worried she might be sitting on the bottom, but in the
morning, she’s still afloat, barely. We get her out of there somehow only to
run aground again at marker five. We knew it was shoaled up there, but the tide
must be farther out than it had been because we run hard aground this time,
even the motor won’t pull us off. Eric tries backing the mainsail, but we’re
good and stuck and the tide is going out. Eric strips off his boots, socks,
long johns, pants and wind pants and steps off the swim ladder. After a half
hour of pulling in the freezing water, Willadine floats free and we motor out
of there and back out into Pamlico Sound.
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| Sunrise, Core Banks |
Somehow,
the wind comes around enough to make headway to the north. We’d talked about
going into Portsmouth Island, but by the time we get close, we’re too tired to
think about running aground any more. Our chart is very sketchy on Portsmouth Island,
where the last resident left for good in 1971. Some of the houses have been
restored and boat tours are available from Ocracoke, so we’re hoping to find
someone with local knowledge. We won’t be going anytime soon anyway, because a
nasty storm is forecast.
At
the town dock, it’s blowing hard from the southwest and as we pull up a guy in
a baseball cap comes over to tell us the docks are closed for renovations. We
end up on a bulkhead, with no power or water (neither of which we need) for a
reduced rate. We’re very happy with this arrangement, especially when our stay
stretches out to a week. The next day it begins to rain and gusts to forty, but
we’re happy to pedal around on our little folding bikes, eat at Eduardo’s TacoTruck and shop at the old-timey Ocracoke Variety Store, where you can buy
pimento cheese, dock cleats and a bottle of whiskey.
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| Me and Willadine in Ocracoke. Does it look cold and windy? It is! |
When
it clears up, we feel rested enough to attempt to make Portsmouth Island. The
wind is predicted to stay northerly and then shift to the south in the afternoon.
That’s exactly how we like it, since Portsmouth is to the south. We sail downwind
both ways. Like the rest of the sound, Ocracoke Inlet is very shoal-y and it
sports a nasty current as well. Outside, if you are unlucky or foolish enough
to be caught out there is a brutal line of breakers and the “Graveyard of the
Atlantic.” So, we advance toward the inlet with extreme caution. We’ve timed
our excursion for the slack at high tide and we make it across without a hitch,
except for some minor bottom bumping. In the binoculars, we can see birds
standing on the bottom in the middle of the water. At low tide, these sandbars
are high and dry.
Because
it takes a long time to get across, we tie up at the “Haulover” dock just as
the tide begins to ebb. Terrified of being swept out to sea by the ebb, we are
relieved to be tied securely at the dock. There is not a soul there, but us.
The town is silent, the sky a sweeping blue overhead. Even the birds seem
quiet. I try to imagine what it must have been like for the people who lived
there, especially the women. I think it must have been a hard life, especially
when I see the little graveyards and imagine what it would be like to be
mortally injured or to drown in such an isolated place. With no warning, a
hurricane would have been cataclysmic.
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| Willadine at Portsmouth Island. The pictures simply do not do it justice at all. Note the roiling current. |
We
walk a loop around the town, past the schoolhouse, peering in windows and
reading the signs outside the houses. A half-mile trail winds through some
beautiful scrubby pines and up and down dunes and comes out on a grassy field
that turns out to have been an airstrip. An abandoned cistern has some
beautiful green water plants growing in it.
A park ranger (this is part of the
Cape Lookout National Seashore) keeps the grass cut in all the yards and
maintains the grassy road.
Back
at the dock, we eat some lunch and for some odd reason, decide to head back on
the ebb as it heads toward slack. Right off the dock, we run aground. It’s
about a foot deep and Willadine draws eighteen inches with her board up.
Naturally, the tide is going out. Trusty the Outboard pulls us off and we zip
around the corner. Without clear knowledge of where the channels are, I’m
terrified of running aground again. The current is extremely swift (maximum ebb
now) and we try to anchor just off Portsmouth, but it drags and we decide to
continue. The tide is well out now, almost all the way low and the channels
look different now with more little sandy islands everywhere. I look out at the
water with the binoculars and see a hodgepodge of red and green markers, all
looking equidistant to us. Off to the east, I can see a horrifying line of
breakers at the mouth of the inlet. With the distortion and the magnification,
they look like they could be fifteen feet high. I ask Eric if he wants to look,
but he knows what is out there and he declines to look.
Even
though I am confused and turned around, luckily, Eric is a master navigator and
remembers where the markers are and how to negotiate the channels. We drag the
bottom as we near the first marker, but the rudder goes back down once we make
the marker.
When
we get to the other side, the Ocracoke side, we feel more relaxed and decide to
anchor for a bit and rest. The wind has come up very strongly from the south,
as predicted, but it’s sunny and nice out. Eric throws out the anchor and
instructs me to back down on it, which I do. Then we wait for the boat to turn
into the wind so we can see if it’s stuck or if it’s dragging. But something
strange happens and we seem to hover right over the spot where we dropped the
anchor. The anchor line hangs limply. We scratch our heads and eye the
shoreline to see if we’re dragging. The water is churning past the boat as if
we were sailing along at three knots. We look at each other and look around in
puzzlement.
Finally,
Eric says, “I know what it is.”
“What?”
I say, ready to fire up Trusty to save the day.
“It’s
the current opposing the wind. We’re just hovering here, no wonder the anchor
isn’t pulling. The wind is pushing us north and the current is pulling us
south.”
“You
think?”
“I’m
sure of it,” he says.
I
chuckle nervously and eye the beach for movement. There isn’t any. We haven’t
moved. But the water is coursing by, making it seem like we are moving. It’s
very disorienting. There is no rest for either of us here, because when the
tide slacks the wind will whip us out of here fast and we don’t know if our
anchor will set or not. Eric pulls her up and we motor on into Ocracoke.
By
the time we reach the entrance to Silver Lake, Ocracoke’s tiny harbor, we are
both elated with our success and exhausted. We are completely unprepared for
the unannounced appearance of a charging ferry coming out. Normally, they blow
a whistle before they come out, but we heard nothing. Perhaps the south wind
carried the sound in the other direction, who knows. We know the ferry can’t
leave the channel to go around us, so we veer off and throttle up to beat it
out of the way. The adrenaline keeps me going until we reach the dock, where we
tie up and go below to crash.
The
forecast is for rain and high winds again the next day so we putter around
Ocracoke, making an excursion to the library to read up on Portsmouth Island
(fascinating) and take in yet another fabulous burrito from Eduardo’s TacoTruck. Along with a Duck Rabbit Porter (I’m a big fan of their Milk Stout and
didn’t even know they made a Porter) from Zillie’s, it makes a wonderful meal.
We
never make it to Hatteras or anywhere else because the wind keeps blowing until
I have to go back and get the kids. Eric’s son, Ansel, arrives on the ferry to
take my place and he and Eric get Willadine back to North Creek a couple of
days later, with a slight detour because of a contrary wind. I’m a little disappointed
to miss the crossing, but glad for Ansel to have the experience. It’s always a
fun time on Willadine, wind or no wind, grounding or sailing. We love our
shallow draft boat in these NC waters.
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| Willadine is barely floating in about eighteen inches of water. If it wasn't so cold, we'd just wade ashore. |
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